Moscow isn’t known for its beautiful climate, but I was still ill-prepered for the arctic conditions that Russia welcomed me with. I knew things were going to be bad when my plane descended through clouds as thick as a Mount Druitt schoolkid, and my fears were confirmed when I stepped out of the airport to be met by a day colder than a snowman’s arsehole. Fortunately my lady friend Lena was there to warm me up with a cuddle and then race my back to her place.
With the temperature outside struggling to climb past four degrees, Lena introduced me to the way Russians keep warm on cold days. Get your mind out of the gutter, you pervert, I mean that she served me a bowl of delicious borscht (soup) and then we started knocking back shots of vodka at 9:30am. I’ve gotta say that if I ever move to Russia, it won’t take me a long time to adapt to their way of life.
Despite smashing shots for 15 hours, I still managed to get up the next morning, squeeze into my singlet, and head out into the metropolis for a run. It was so fucking cold I’m surprised my dick didn’t get frostbite, and the Moscovians who I ran past – each dressed in woollen hats, ski jacket and gloves – stared at me as if I was afucking idiot. Honestly, a three-legged alien could’ve beamed down and start fucking a dog, and the locals would’ve looked at it with less surprise than they showed me.
After making it back to Lena’s place and warming up by, well, let’s just say eating soup so as to keep it PG for the kiddies, we headed out to Rainbow Park to hold hands and chase ducks. In a city packed with crumbling Soviet-era towers and crowded motorways, it’s a welcome oasis. Loyal readers of D&J would be aware that I’ve got a history of stripping off, but I though Lena’s already-dwindling level of respect for me would dwindle if she was to see me nude up in freezing conditions, so I kept my gear on the whole time. I guess this is growing up.
Russian parks are brilliant, and apart from the lovely landscaping and impressive selection of local and international plants and flowers, are packed with all sorts of excercise equipment. There was even a full-sized boxing ring – apparently the locals assemble there on saturdays to sort out their grievances. Husbands punch on with wives, employees throw fists at bosses, pensioners lay the smackdown on paperboys who keep chucking the Moscow Times in the bush rather than on the doorstep. If I prove to be annoying, I wouldn’t be surprised if Lena drags me back there on the weekend so she can kick me in the nuts in front of a bloodthirsty crowd.
BEER OF THE DAY – SOME STUFF I GOT IN A PLASTIC BOTTLE FROM THE CORNER SHOP
Like most places in Europe, Russia has a fantastic selection of beers at dirt cheap prices. While the cans and bottles of local and imported piss are great, there’s a better option. Most corner shops have beer taps, so it’s possible to purchase freshly-poured draught beer in 1.5 litre bottles. Drinking from a brown plastic bottle in a park makes you feel like a filthy wino, but the quaity of the brew ensures you won’t wake up the next morning feeling like a group of skinheads have been stomping on your face. Highly recommended!
I’ve been to some oddly-named beaches over the years – Tasmania’s Eggs and Bacon Bay stands out – and I think I’ve found the weirdest of all time. It’s called Flick en Flack, it’s on the west coast of Mauritius, and it’s a pretty groovy place to hang out and smash a few beers. Just look at these photos, it’s awesome. Mainly, though, it’s fun to just say the name over and over again.
There’s one long beach that stretches for kilometres, plenty of palm trees, clear water, and golden sand that is mostly free of rubbish and dead birds. There are a few resorts along the water, which means there’s no shortage of plump Russians slowly turning crimson in the tropical sun. I can’t afford to stay in any of the resorts, so I’m looked down upon by the rich Europeans sipping their expensive cocktails, but I figure I won’t be the one having a heart attack in the next two months, so I win.
Yep, Flic en Flac is a top little town, and I reckon it’s a lot nicer than Grand Baie because the beach is better and it’s a bit quieter. I also prefer it because I saw three sets of boobies today. Mauritius is definitely a place where couples come to kiss each other, so a handsome single man like myself has to take what he can get. And what I’m getting right now is pissed on cheap cans of Phoenix while watching the sunset, so enjoy these photos… or just feel jealous of me. How’s the weather where you are at the moment?
Beer isn’t easy to come across in Sri Lanka,so when I found a restaurant near my hotel that sells cans of God’s Golden Nectar (alright, the little fellas run down the street and buy it from some bloke and then race back with it, but it’s the same thing), I thought I was in heaven. To make things better, the beer in question, Lion Strong has an alcohol percentage of 8.8 – enough to kill a full-grown elephant.
I ordered five cans and carried them back to my room as carefully as if I were carrying the holy grail. I chucked some music on, took a seat on the balcony overlooking the ocean, and took a big swig of beer… Or, at least, I was expecting it to be beer, because what filled my mouth tasted like a mixture of unleaded petrol and runny dog shit.
Lion Strong can barely be called a beer. It tastes more like cheap, canned bourbon and coke due to the high alcohol content, and has a horrible, syrupy texture. It’s absolutely putrid. I was gagging like a midget in a blowbang as I tried to force the dirty water down my throat, and the locals probably thought I was dying, and planning to chuck me in that night’s curry.
While it’s a truly revolting drink, Lion Strong packs a massive punch, and after five cans I was fucking smashed and passed out under a palm tree, only to wake up with an old Sri Lankan woman stroking my hair and calling me a pretty baby. I think I’ll stay away from the Lion Strongs from now on.
After a few days scratching around the grimiest backstreets Sri Lanka has to offer, today I finally got to take a refreshing dip in the calm, blue waters of the Bay of Bengal. I’ve set up camp in Trincomalee, a seemingly endless stretch of golden sand fringed by swaying palms. There are certainly worse places to stuff around in for a few weeks, that’s for bloody sure.
I’m staying right on the beach, with nothing but the ocean to look out on. Trinco (as all the cool people say – and some cockheads, probably) isn’t heavily developed, with just a smattering of hotels along the water. Go back a street and it’s a typical Sri Lankan village – busy and dirty, with little dudes storming around for the sake of appearing busy and cows standing around shitting all over the place.
It really is a very nice place to sit back, relax, and smash a bunch of beers… Or it would be, if Sri Lanka didn’t have a bunch of weird laws that ensure that having a few drinks is a difficult endeavour. After rocking up on the bus, I just wanted a beer, and set out into the streets to find a place willing to sell me one. In Negombo they had specific shops with huge ‘BEER’ signs out the front, and in Kandy alcohol was available at the supermarket, so I didn’t think it would be hard. I was wrong.
I swaggered into the first shop I found and asked for a beer, only to be met by confused looks, as if I’d asked if they had any chickens I could fuck. They finally told me of a place down the road that could help me out, so I trotted off down there. When I asked them, they gave me a confused look and then pointed me towards the first place.
I know Sri Lanka’s a developing country, but they need to sort their alcohol situation out. A bloke should be able to walk up the road and get himself a bloody beer on a hot afternoon. I ended up walking a round trip of 8km, only to come back empty handed and sadly sober. I settled for a beer at my hotel, which set me back $3.50 for a small bottle – hardly the cheap drinking experience I expected from one of the world’s poorest countries.
That’s the story of Sri Lanka, really. While it’s a povvo country like Indonesia or Thailand, it doesn’t provide a typical ‘povvo country’ holiday experience, with cheap accommodation and food. While $25 can get a lovely, modern unit in Bali, $40 gets an absolute shithole of a room in Sri Lanka – mine has bare concrete walls, no air con, and a hole in the ground where the advertised pool was mean to be. Meals are expensive unless you’re willing to risk the street food (I have), with basic meals running north of $10 a pop.
Trinco is a great part of the world, and if the Lankans ever sort out their pricing problems it will become a major tourist destination (and get fucked up in the process). Despite its problems, it’s a laid-back and relaxing village that is a great place to spend a relaxing few days, weeks, or even months. Right now, I’m just going to sit back on the beach with an overpriced beer, watch the sun down, and have a crack at the big-titted Pommy sheila who keeps giving me the eye. It’s a life…
Podgorica, the capital of Montenegro, doesn’t make it onto many lists of must-see cities, and for very good reason. While it’s not an unpleasant place, and you won’t get stabbed or raped if you go there, I can’t think of a single reason to visit it rather than any other medium-sized city anywhere on the planet. Well, apart from Huddersfield.
I had to spend a eight hours in Podgorica before catching a bus to the Macedonian capital of Skopje, which was about seven hours too long. There’s just not much to look at – the river that runs through town is wet, but not particularly pretty. The Turkish Old Town is covered in graffiti. The most prominent landmark, the Millennium Bridge, is celebrated by locals but looks like any little bridge in any town you’ve ever seen. Alright, the women are all pretty, which is a bonus if you’re a sex tourist or something.
The city centre is pretty flat and boring, with a bunch of three story buildings clustered together and not much else. It feels more like a country town than a national capital. I became confused for a while and thought I was in Wyong, and wondered why dickheads with tattoos weren’t trying to punch me while homeless dudes urinated on my leg.
That’s one thing you don’t see much of in Europe – tattoos. Every dumbarse in Australia is loaded up with stough stickers, and most of the women have shit ink all over their bodies, but not over here. They might eat weird food, smell funny, and talk like they’ve got dog shit in their mouths, but at least they don’t think it’s good to have a tattoo of Spider-Man above their buttholes.
The most exciting thing I saw in Podgorica was a pervert – who also might be the mayor of the city, according to some locals I was magging to – started flashing children as they walked past him, enjoying the sunshine. Apart from that, he seemed like a nice enough bloke.
Oh, and speaking of thin, slimy things, I saw a fucking SNAKE slithering around like he owned the fucking joint.
After oohing and ahhing over the small number of statues in the centre of the square, and remarking at all the unfinished buildings strewn around the joint, I’d exhausted my list of sighyseeing options and spent the afternoon eating pizza and drinking beer. The Petra Cetinjskog boulevard is actually quite lovely, with plenty of trees and nice little bars and restaurants to get pissed at.
After drinking my bodyweight in Tuborg and eating enough pizza to have Rebel Wilson tapping out (who am I kidding, that fat slug would eat pizza till her sides split), I staggered back to the river, stripped off and flaunted my wares as the sun went down. It was the most exciting thing to ever happen in the city, and small children danced around me with sparklers in their hands.
Alright, so my travel advice for Podgorica is
Don’t fucking bother going there
Watch out for snakes
If you have to spend time there, get really drunk or take up a heavy heroin habit, AND
If you’re going to masturbate in public, the local cops can be easily outrun
It’s time to get out of Tallinn, so today I headed to the world famous city of Parnu! PARNU! PARNUUUUUUU! What, you haven’t heard of it? It’s a little place on the western coast of Estonia, and the country’s summer capital. It’s where all the rich folk from Tallinn head when the weather stops being so damn cold, and is a bit of a resort town. However, I decided to visit out of season and in the middle of the week, so it’s been deader than a married woman’s libido.
There’s not a lot to Parnu, but what there is of it is pleasant enough. There’s a touristic main street with cute little wooden buildings and plenty of souvenir shops, a few parks that are, well, there, and lots of restaurants and bars scattered around the place. There’s also a shop for the city’s alkos.
Parnu’s most famous landmarks are its twin breakwalls, which each extend more than two kilometres into the ocean. They’re not overly impressive, but dickhead here obviously had to walk all the way out to the end of one of them, and scrambling over all those rocks wasn’t an easy (or fast task). Tradition states that if a person makes it to the end while holding the love of their life the whole way, they’ll stay together forever. So, of course, I held my dick – I know you’ll always be there for me, baby.
There’s a wide, white-sand beach a few hundred metres south of the centre of Parnu, and I’m sure it would be lovely under the right conditions (say, 25 degrees, with heaps of cute Estonian sheilas frolicking around in tiny bikinis, maybe getting a bit lezzy with each other, and heaps of cold beer), but it’s a little bit creepy when the temperature is in single digits and even that’s outnumbering the people on the sand. Still, I was treated to a delightful sunset and one of the more unsual beach walks I’ve ever had.
It’s easy to see that Parnu would be a great place to stay when the weather’s warm and the whole town is humming with happy people, but it’s a little bit sleepy and lacking in interesting things to do at any other time. The main reason I’m here is to visit the nearby Soomaa National Park, which I’ll be doing tomorrow. It’s probably for the best – there’s only so many times you can walk along the bloody breakwall!
Beer of the day:
I smashed three pints of Saku at Steffani’s, but I didn’t smash Steffani, because it’s a pizza shop, not a lady. I’ve gotta say, Saku is a fantastic beer – really clean and clear, and so bloody easy to drink. Puts most Aussie beers to shame, so it’s no wonder it’s the pride of Estonia!
Kebab of the day:
Today’s kebab was a pizza, which I also enjoyed at Steffani’s. Estonian pizzas are weird, because they coat everything in a thick layer of blue cheese, but it was a top meal after not having eaten anything of substance in two days.
After spending almost a week in Latvia, I think I’m in a position to say that this place is a bit weird. Wait, scratch that, it’s a bat-shit insane country that is incredible to experience for that very reason.
The locals are serious to a fault, which takes a bit of getting used to as an Australian. I’m used to saying G’day to strangers, maybe giving them a bit of a wave. In Latvia, the response to that is to look at me as if I’m either a sex fiend, or a retard – or a mixture of both. Even at shops, I haven’t received a single smile since I got here. And I usually get heaps of smiles, because I’m lovely.
The supermarkets here are fucking bonkers. I headed into a place called Rimi, which is a gigantic warehouse where all the actual food and groceries are hidden behind rows and rows of toys, camping equipment, makeup and other crazy stuff. I guess it makes sense – I’ve often wandered into a shop to buy a six-pack of pies and a box of condoms and thought, “I wish I could also update my wardrobe and purchase a new basketball hoop while I’m here.”
The supermarket also had a massive fish tank right next to the milk – in what bizarre world does that make sense. “Oh, I’ll just check out this massive fuck-off fish before I grab a couple of litres of goat milk and a six-pack of frozen dog paws.”
There’s a definite upside to Latvian supermarkets, though, because their alcohol selection is out of this world. It seems like a quarter of the joint was dedicated to booze, with rows and rows of cheap beer, cheap spirits, and reasonably cheap Aussie wine just waiting to be guzzled. They also sell beer in two-litre plastic bottles – bet the Latvian lovelies would be impressed by that when a fella drags one of those out during a romantic meal!
I spent this arvo exploring a forest on the outskirts of Riga with a lady friend of mine and her dog. The forests here are weirdly quiet and full of people aimlessly wandering around in long coats, looking as if they’d rather be anywhere else in the world. The forests have an eerie, lonely quality to them, even when located in or around populated areas. Abandoned houses stand rotting among the ghost-like trees, and empty beer cans lie everywhere.
We ended up at a small lake that was ringed by tall pine trees and a couple of menacing Soviet-era housing blocks that served as a reminder of Latvia’s troubled past. While Riga is cold and the terrain harsh, the locals don’t spend their Saturdays too diffrerently from Australians. A few beers over a BBQ with mates, or taking the kids to the park to let them have a run around. Maybe drink a litre or two of black balsam, head home to bash the missus, that sorta thing.
Oh well, that’s it for Riga (well, for now, at least) and it’s time to hop on a luxury bus to Tallinn, the mystical capital of Estonia, one country to the north of Latvia. If it’s even half as barmy as Latvia, I’ll have plenty of stories to share. Hell, even if it’s not wacky, I’ll just drink until something funny happens…
Beer of the day:
The cheapest beer in Latvia is some swill called Walter. Going by the taste, I’m assuming there’s some falt bloke called Walter who simply pisses in the cans before they get shipped off to the supermarket, but I’m giving it my beer of the day anyway. Just brush your teeth after downing one, or people will think you’ve been playing drinking games with Todd Carney.
Kebab of the day:
While my lady friend put the kybosh on my plans to have a kebab today, I decided to fight for my right to party have something resembling a kebab by making fajitas for dinner. They were delicious and if you reckon they don’t count as kebabs then you can go fuck yourself.
Last time I was in Europe, I had sex with a lot of statues. It’s not something I’m proud of, because I know they couldn’t say no or try to stop me, but it happened. I was drunk, and I took advantage of them.
Symbols of culture and history and national pride all succumbed to my wicked willy. I just wandered up, had my way with their stone boobies and fannies, took a photo, and went on my way. Sick, I know, but I can’t change the past.
I’ve bonked statues in other countries, too. Indonesia, Malaysia, even here in Australia – nothing’s safe. And you know what? I enjoyed it. Every time I simulated sex with a stone beauty, I was having the time of my life.
It’s not all fun and games, though. Do you know how much it hurts to have sex with a sandstone vagina? It’s rougher in there than in my ex-girlfriend’s vagina, and she had more diseases than a Chinese hospital, so it was like rooting a sheet of sandpaper.
I’ll do it again, too, because in less than three weeks I’ll be back in Europe, and back in the statues. I won’t just be having sex with statues, though, because that would be weird. I’ll be exploring cities from Riga to Athens, seeing the sights, getting drunk, trying to pick up women and probably getting naked once or twice.
I’m going to visit concentration camps and ancient cities, nightclubs and national parks. I’ll be hiking up mountains, catching cable cars, sitting in beer gardens and talking to pretty girls. Catching trains and making a fool of myself as I travel through 15 countries in 62 days, all so that you don’t have to.
There’ll be laughs, tears, shenanigans and adventures, all here in the best bloody travel blog on the interweb. No women in floaty dresses talking about enlightening experiences, no endless details cribbed from other sites – just genuine stories of life on the road. Oh, and daily kebab and beer reviews.
It’s going to be my longest overseas trip ever, I’ll be doing it along, and it’s certainly going to have its ups and downs, good times and maybe even a few emotional breakdowns. Who knows, I might even meet that girl I’ve been looking for.
Click on the subscribe button and get ready for a ride. Or don’t, I’m a bit pissed so I don’t really care either way.
After having an awesome time in beautiful Prague, Munich had a lot to live up to. The ancient city in the south of Germany promised history, culture, and more beer than any one liver could handle, but I instead became the victim of a crime that still affects me to this day. I was robbed in broad daylight and left alone on the wrong side of the world.
My time in Munich started badly, with rain sweeping in while I headed out to explore. I ended up in the world’s largest beer garden, which holds up to 7000 piss-heads. That sounds awesome except, when I was there, instead of thousands of party-goers (many of whom would obviously be big-titted German wenches), I was joined by eight or nine fat, depressed Euros and a dying dog. In Munich, it pays to be there at the right time.
I’d heard good things about the city, but Munich isn’t exactly beautiful. What’s left of the old town is small, with drab, modern building making up the bulk of the place. Honestly, as I was walking around it felt like I was walking through the outskirts of Wyong, a town that doesn’t exactly fill the heart with love and wonder.
While the city is drab, the parks are really nice to walk through, with lakes and palaces all over the place. The Englischer Garten is a highlight, with rivers all over the place, heaps of different typses of plants, a Chinese-themed beer garden, and a sewage pipe that wacky Germans surf off! Well, I suppose a wetsuit full of poo and used condoms is a small price to pay for a surf when you’re thousands of kilometres from the coast.
I love the Olympics (I had a poster of Ian Thorpe on my wall as a child, which certainly seems questionable now. Of course, it was wedged between my Ricky Martin and Elton John posters, so I had a couple of heterosexual tough-guys there to balance out Ian’s festering homosexuality), so i decided to head out to the site of the 1972 Games, where Australia scored an impressive eight gold medals – all for the now-banned sport of midget tossing.
While the stadium has aged, its well-maintained and the grounds of the precinct are well-maintained, peaceful and gorgeous, and well worth checking out. There’s even a hill to climb, which provides commanding views out over the city. I managed to score a beer and drink it under a tree by a lake, before wandering off to find something to eat. The best thing about Germany (apart from the fact it keeps all the fucking Germans in one spot, and stops them from spreading all over the world like piss in a kiddie pool) is that there are beer gardens everywhere. If there’s a patch of grass with a few trees, it’s possible to buy an improbably-sized jug of beer and some meat, and sit there getting fat and drunk and happy. It was in one such garden, on the side of a tree and in the shade of a massive tree, that I was robbed.
I bought a huge stein of beer a huge plate of currywurst, which fast became my favourite food while in Germany. It’s basically a bratwurst slathered in a paste made from tomato sauce and curry powder, served with French fries. It sounds average, but it’s actually fantastic, and I couldn’t wait to eat it. Unfortunately, I forgot to pick up a knife and fork with my my meal, so I headed back to the counter to get it, stupidly leaving my belongings on my table.
As I returned, the alcoholic Germans around me were laughing and shouting at me, chunks of meat pouring from their stupid mouths. The hooted louder and louder as I got closer to my table, and when I got back, I realised someone has stolen my stuff, and it hit me like a punch to the stomach. In only 30 seconds, some of the things most important to me had been pinched – my currywurst, some of my chips, gone! At first I thought they’d been taken by some hungry kraut dickhead, but it turned out a huge bird had taken my lunch. A fucking bird!
I was shattered, and sat down to cry into my beer. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder, and when I looked up a miracle was in progress! A stunning blonde girl with huge knockers was placing a replacement sausage on my plate while everyone in the beer garden cheered! The day had gone from the worst in history, to the best, and I celebrated by taking the big-titted blonde into my arms and kissing her passionately.
At least, that was the plan, until her 120kg boyfriend stepped in and told me in no uncertain terms that if I tried it again, he would kick my teeth down my throat. Turns out some things aren’t easily lost in translation. But the day wasn’t done. Drunk on beer and happy with life, I staggered to the train station for an overnight trip to Venice, where I spent the evening rolling between countries with an absolutely stunning Russian model. But that’s a story for another day…
When I rolled into Amsterdam for the first time a few years ago, I only had three things on my mind; beer, drugs, and naked women with big titties. Who cares if it’s one of the most beautiful cities in the world, that’s what me – and most other people – go there for. But first I had something very important to take care of – it was State of Origin day, and I had to find somewhere to watch the big game.
I was staying on a boat moored on the river, so I dumped my bags in my closet of a room and headed out into the freezing afternoon, stopping only to pick up a roadie or two as I waltzed down the streets. Amsterdam might have thousands of years of history and be a melting pot for arts and culture, but I didn’t give a shit about that right then – I had to find a pub with the footy on, and I found it in Coco’s Outback, not far from the city centre.
The joint was jammed wall-to-wall with pissed Aussies, so I grabbed myself a long, tall glass of Grolsch and settled back to watch New South Wales pull out a hard-fought 12-8 victory. As the game wound down I got chatting to Clint, a middle-aged miner from Newcastle, and when the less-than-jovial chaps from Coco’s kicked everyone out of the joint five seconds after the final whistle, we both headed to a local Italian restaurant for another few beers.
That’s when I found out Clint’s a bit fucked in the head.
While I would’ve liked to talk about the footy game, Clint only wanted to talk about his ex-wife. Apparently she was a fucking bitch, a psycho, a slut. I’ve never met the woman, so she probably is, I just wanted Clint to shut the fuck up about it because he was seriously bringing me down. And then he took it a step further.
“Lot of places to bury a body in Australia,” he said, staring me straight in the eyes while taking a deep pull of his Heineken. Shit, now Clint wasn’t just annoying me with his incessant whinging, now the mad bastard was making me an accessory to murder! I needed to get out of there, so I skolled my beer and told him I had to get going.
“Yeah, it’s probably time we left this shithole,” he sneered, looking around. “Let’s head up to the red light district and go halves in a hooker. Whaddya say?”
While the thought of sharing the orifices of an Eastern European sex slave with a deranged murderer certainly sounded appealing, I was forced to decline. Who knows, the nutter probably would’ve strangled the chick while I was balls-deep, and I have no inclination to become a necrophiliac, even if it’s not my fault. Instead, I headed out into Amsterdam by myself, stopping regularly to drink at the endless supply of beautiful pubs.
It’s a gorgeous city, with sparkling canals, fairy tale streets, and ancient churches and monuments. The city centre is small and easy to walk around, and it’s just a great place to spend time. The weather was atrocious when I was there and I was freezing cold as I walked around, but it didn’t matter because Amsterdam has such a special feeling. And then, as I walked along, the ancient buildings gave way to the decadence and depravity of the infamous red light district.
As I stumbled along drunkenly, I realised it was everything I’d ever heard and more. Stunning women with massive fake tits dance behind huge windows, waving to any bloke who looks at them. Gangs of smashed Pommy tourists wobble along cobblestone streets, beers in hand, loudly debating which brothel to head into. Swarms of Japanese tourists, following a leader with a flag and a colour-coded hat, syphon into X-rated sex shows. It’s bizarre and awesome and disgusting at the same time, and definitely worth experiencing.
After checking out a sex show featuring a barely-legal blonde teenager getting fucked by a black fella with a cock the size of a Chinaman’s leg (I bet she was walking funny after that), I decided it was time to indulge in Amsterdam’s other famous commodity – the drugs. Now, I don’t ever use drugs, but felt I had to in order to get the whole cultural experience, so I didn’t really know how to go about it. All the cafes had menus with various drug-sounding items on them, but I couldn’t work out what was what, so I just kept wandering around and drinking. Finally, I walked into a shady-looking cafe, saw some muffins on the counter, and asked what they were. When a creepy bald man told me they were space cakes, I told him to wrap one up for me, and away I went. Big fucking mistake.
I ate the huge muffin an a few bites and chucked the wrapper in a bin, wondering why the effects hadn’t kicked in. Thinking I must’ve been dudded, I ducked into a pub and ordered a beer, grooving around in time to the live band that was playing. I was putting the moves on a big-titted brunette when the music started to echo and the lights around me started to blur. My mind became clouded and I suddenly had to get out of the stuffy pub, so I left my beer (and the big-titted brunette) and burst out into the crisp night air. Sounds hung in the air like butterflies and lights burned intensely as I made my way over to the bank of a canal, holding onto a railing as I watched throngs of people walking by. And then everything changed.
At once, every single person in the crowd transformed into grotesque cartoon characters, with oversized, pointy heads like the crows in Fritz the Cat. Hundreds of the things stared straight at me, their massive eyes burning through me. As the filed past, every person said my name – it was all anyone could say, their voices deep and dropping with evil. I just stood there, freaked out but, deep in my mind, aware that nothing I was seeing was real. I also knew that I had to get out of there.
As I walked down the dark streets, trying to avoid the crows, I was hit by alternating waves of euphoria and terror. One second a pulse would hit me and the world would be bursting with colour and love, and seconds later I would be hit again and I’d be walking through a rotting cesspit with corpses staring at me. It was incredibly strange, and I was very glad to get back to my tiny room on the boat.
Only it wasn’t so tiny, and it wasn’t on a boat. After closing the door, the room magically transformed into my grandparents’ backyard, with an endless blue sky opening up above. I could feel the grass and smell the flowers. I lay back and stretched out, listening to a light breeze rustle through the trees, and gold fish swimming in the pond. I’d found out less than a week beforehand that my grandfather had died while I was flying over from Australia and, while neither he nor my grandmother were in the garden with me, it was a lovely and peaceful way to spend the night.
And bloody hell, I certainly got my money’s worth on that room booking!